


Purge

by orphan_account



Series: Purge [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Nightmares, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-02 00:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5226266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off of supernaturalimagines: Imagine laying in the backseat of the Impala listening to a thunderstorm with Dean</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You wipe the exhaustion from your eyes and lean against your beat up pickup truck as you wait for the Winchesters to arrive. This is going to be your first time teaming up with the brothers, and your lack of experience, especially in comparison to the boys, makes you undeniably over aware of every move you make. You’ve directed them towards cases that were above your skill level before, but that is as far as your conversations have gone. You idly crack your knuckles, trying to occupy your time without obsessing over introductions.

The thunderous roaring of the Impala’s engine gives away the Winchesters’ arrival long before you actually see the car. Rays from the sun bounce of its meticulously cleaned black metal body. The beauty of the Impala puts your run down truck to shame. You feel embarrassed and like you should shield the boys’ eyes from the peeling hunk of metal that used to be a gorgeous car.

 

“Hey boys! Hope the drive wasn’t too bad.”

 

Dean shakes his head and gives you a mischievous smirk. “It was alright. Sam really enjoyed himself.” Sam gives Dean a dirty look and jabs him in the side.

 

Getting the impression that you shouldn’t pry, you let the guys in on the monsters you think are attacking the city. A pack of, what you believe to be, ghouls have been hopping from city to city. Just before you can catch up, they have already moved on to the next place. By now, you've figured out that their pattern is to always attack cities with large memorial burial grounds or cemeteries in big cities that are abandoned. Each one has been in different states and never the same city twice. For the first time you’ve tracked them down to Phoenix, Arizona, before they’ve had to opportunity to disappear.

 

You all believe that waiting until dark, when the it will be easier for them to dig out their meals, will be the safest bet to get the jump on them. Dean will grab their attention while you and Sam decapitate each of them from behind. Plan in place,you lead the boys back to your current hideaway. It’s an abandoned house on the outskirts of Arizona, not too far away from a local cemetery that has been getting more visitors that can’t afford a plot anywhere else. An hour into waiting until nightfall a light rainstorm begins. At first, none of you pay attention, until the rain starts to sound like it will break the walls. You check the local weather and find out that a severe rainstorm is going to be hitting right where you are now, and the cemetery until early morning.

 

“That’s perfect. Just fucking perfect.” You close your laptop and move over to the partially unstuffed coach by the window.

 

You try to distract yourself from your diminishing chances of catching the ghouls, and watch as the rapid falling rain slides off of the Impala’s smooth body. You’d give anything to take it for a spin. Out of the corner of your eye you notice that Dean is methodically cleaning and sharpening his knives. You take one last look at the Impala as it is bathed by the immense rain and sit on the coffee table across from Dean.

 

“Hey, can you do me a tiny favor?” You prepare yourself for the fact that what you’re about to ask may seem strange, but you don’t know if you’ll ever get the opportunity again.

 

“Depends. What is it?”

 

“Can we..sit in the Impala for a little bit? Just until the rain stops?” Dean gives you a confused look, but he grabs his keys and leads the way out without question.  

 

He shouts over his shoulder to Sam that you’ll be outside for a little while. The heavy raindrops hit your scalp, causes your muscles to relax, even though you didn’t notice how tense you’ve been these past few hours. Apparently, the pressure you’ve placed on yourself to have the perfect plan, a perfectly executed hunt, has wound you up as if this was your first hunt. You slide into the backseat and Dean takes the front. The rain slamming against the car roof sounds like war drums: rhythmic and powerful.

 

You take in how beautifully the car has been maintained even on the inside. The leather is practically pristine aside from the various lighter stains that you assume is blood. On the door are the boys initials carved into the casing. You lay down on the backseat and close your eyes. The continuing rain begins to lull you to sleep.

 

Dean clears his throat and looks over the front seat. “So your favor was that you want to sleep in my car? I've got to say, that's the first time someone has asks to get in my car to just sleep.”

 

You laugh, realizing that this car has not only seen its’ fair share of bloodshed, but also one night stands. “Yeah, sorry. It's just I have being dying to get in this car since the first time I saw it! Plus, I just really like being out in the rain. I don't always have a pool to watch the rain fall from underneath, or even a real place to sleep, so a car usually does the trick.” You look out the window and watch the raindrops race each other down the glass.

 

“You know what’s funny? I’ve always had a hard time sleeping, unless there was a rain storm outside. Because of that, my mom would go outside and turn on the water hose. She’d make the water splash against my window, just like when there was a storm. It became our nightly thing. No matter how tired she was, how sick, she’d take the time to give me a rainstorm.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Dean idly looks out the window, refusing to even glance at you.

 

“Don’t be.” You chuckle to yourself, incredulous as to why you told Dean such a personal thing that you rarely share. Every hunter knew that you shared a similar story to the Winchesters. You lost your mother early and were raised by your father. He got you into hunting, and not long after you started he made a wrong move that cost him his life. Your scoff turns into a light giggle.

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

“Nothing, I guess, it’s just that I don’t really share that with people. Actually, you’re the first person I’ve told since I was sixteen.” You smile to yourself as you gaze at Dean from the corner of your eye. His profile is intermittently illuminated by the passing lightening. “For some reason I just feel like I could tell you, and  that you won't look at me like some beaten puppy that needs to be cared for.”

 

“You’re far from that.” Dean lays down on the front seat. “There have been a lot of stories running around about. None of them gave me the impression that you are someone to look down at or pity.”

 

For a moment, all that is left is silence. You feel like you can puff out your chest in pride. Despite your lack of experience, your charm, wit, and cunning have gotten you far. You've made a name for yourself. That brings you some happiness thinking how proud your mom would be if she could see you, doing something you love and getting better at it everyday.Your brain drifts to what your dad may say if he say you now, but you don’t let yourself play with that train of thought for long.  

 

“What about you?”

 

Dean furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well,” You raise from your resting position to look over the front seat. “do you have anything like that? Like my rainstorms.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

For a second you think that will be the end of the conversation, but Dean begins again.

 

“When I was little my mom used to sing ‘Hey Jude’ to us. Sometimes when I can't sleep or- you know- I play it. It always works.” You get the feeling that is all Dean is willing or capable of talking about right now, so you try not to ask him any more questions.

 

“I think today is our lucky day. I got my rainstorm in my dream car, and I’ve got your song.” After sifting through your extensive library of music on your phone you put “Hey Jude” on speaker.

 

Both of you relax against comfortable leather, enjoying how the song mixes with the sound of rain falling onto the car. Thunder occasionally crashes in, temporarily enhancing the drumming rhythm of the rain. You watch from out the back window as the lightning strikes light up the night sky, turning it a purpley white every couple of minutes. Towards the end of the song, Sam comes running out and knocks on the roof of the car. You shut the music off, and open the door.

 

“Y/N, Dean, I think we may have a problem.”

 

“What happened, Sam?” He slides into the front seat next to Dean, all the hunting materials that were inside the house in his hands.

 

“A ghoul has just attacked a family inside the city while trying to feed. It fed on the mother and the toddler. Before it could attack the dad, he escaped.”

 

“Okay.” You get the feeling that there is something missing from the story the longer Sam sends Dean anxious glances. “Is there more or is it just a ghoul that got a little too hungry?”

 

“I’m so sorry...”

 

You try to force a smile and laugh to reduce the growing tension. “What do you have to be sorry about?”

 

“The ghoul..it looked like your mom, Y/N.”

 

Confused, and scared, you push yourself further into the seat. Sam fumbles with what to say or do, while Dean remains motionless in his seat.

 

“And how would you know that? You’ve never met my mother.”

 

Sam rotates all the way around in his seat so that he can be facing you directly. “We used to go on hunts, before what happened, with your dad long before he let you tag along. He’d always talk about having the two of you back home, waiting for him, tore him up inside, and how he hoped you weren’t giving your mom too much trouble. Eventually, after your mom passed, he stopped hunting, or even helping us when we called. That was until he contacted us two years ago.”

 

“And?” You feel yourself sitting on the edge of your seat, anxious to find out where this story is going.

 

“He asked us to make sure you wouldn’t get into trouble. Well, actually, he talked to the whole network of hunters to make sure to keep an eye out for you. Make sure you didn't get in too much trouble.”

 

Before Sam can say anything else you storm out of the car and back into the house. You gather your things, toss them into the back seat of your truck, and speed off. No longer able to see the house, or the Winchesters, you bang your hands against the steering wheel. It was never you that earned your name in this business. Of course it wasn’t. Even from the grave that bastard has you riding on training wheels without your knowledge, or permission. He would always say he was letting go of the reigns so you could hunt by yourself, so you could be independent. As it would turn out, a few months after each “solo” hunt he'd make a remark on something you could fix. Without realising, he'd mentioned that he noticed you do the same thing on that particular trip. As it would turn out, either he or a friend would stake out your solo mission to make sure nothing eventful happened.

 

You stare down the empty road and come to a decision. You're going to make a name for yourself without anyone holding your hand. You’ll prove that grouch, and every other hunter, that you can, and will, survive on your own. And your first kill: that ghoul.


	2. My Moment

You search ground zero. The blood is still fresh in the air and getting tacky on the ground. The rain is probably why almost all trace of the ghoul is gone, but the mud will work to your advantage. After eating, and being described to the police, the ghoul would need to someplace to lay low for a little while. They have to go somewhere close and their tracks, if they went on foot, would lead you right to them. As you're about to cross the street to look at what seems to be discarded clothing, a car comes rolling through. An elderly man in a pickup truck that’s rusty just like yours slows to a stop next to you. The first thing you notice is how weathered his skin is from years of hard work in the sun.

 

“Hi, Miss! I saw you speeding your way up here and figured you mustn't of heard about the attack that happened. The road’s gonna be blocked for days, maybe weeks, till the police catch him.” His voice is raspy, like a chain smoker. For most of the time he’s talking you can't focus on anything he's saying. The skin of his cheeks hang low and flap with every tiny movement his face makes. The elderly man's lips are cracked and thin, only accentuating the severe dryness that seems to be a running theme on all of his skin.

 

You flash your fake FBI badge, and shuffle out of a fold in your wallet a picture of your mother. It was taken during one of those rare moments when she was relaxing on the couch, oblivious to you sneaking a photo.You have always kept it on you, and feel naked without it on your person, but never thought it would be used as anything more than just a reminder. “Have you seen this woman? She's our main suspect in a string of brutal murders.”

 

The elderly man’s face changes to one of animated shock. “Her? Why, she’s a sweetheart! My wife and I took her in. She came into our barn, wet to the bone with just her underwear on.” In a moment the gravity of the situation strikes him. “Oh no, my wife!”

 

Faster than you thought he could, the man slings open his passenger door and speeds away as you barely clamour into the beaten seats. The less than four mile drive feels like it stretches for hundreds of miles, and the hardened foam in the seats does not help. Throughout not a word is spoken as the man wrings his hands around the steering wheel, eyes locked on the road.

 

The man’s two-story ranch house comes into view through the tree lined driveway. The only movement around is the light wind. As you exit, you can't help but feel like you're in a cheesy horror movie. With every carefully placed step you are just waiting for the low, rumbling music to start. You motion for the man to return to his car, shocked and amazed at how ready he is to run back into his home with no protection, all for his wife. Your mind quickly notes that you’d kill to have a love like that some day before it is replaced by all your fears baring down in the front of your mind, making you doubt even the way you’re breathing.

 

The screen door screeches open, the rust evident on its hinges. A heavy thud comes from a room further down the narrow corridor. Cautiously, you approach the noise, serrated knife in hand. As you turn the corner you freeze. Your mother’s once loving face is smothered in blood. Her kind features masked behind a wide-mouthed snarl. Reflexively, you try to reach out to her, to hold her again. You know that's not your mother, it couldn't be, but she looks exactly how you remember her. Ethereal. Your mother lunges at you, teeth bared and arms reaching for your petrified body.

 

Her hands graze your neck before her body body slams into you. You sneak a look to side to see her detached head, rolling to a stop. Her blood trickles down your face and neck, warm and itchy. You want to wipe yourself clean, but you still can't move. All you want is her lifeless body off of you, yet you can't bring yourself to lay a hand on her. Your body trembles in uncontrollable bouts. You feel like you should be crying, screaming, anything; however, you're just motionless and expressionless. The fear, the second loss, has fried your emotions. Everything from the way your clothes sit to how your body moves feels vile, weak and worthless. You had your shot and you choked.

 

Sam rushes to your side, removes your mother’s heavy body off of you and holds your face. You see the hilt of his blade, marked with fresh blood, sweaters sticking from out of his pants and you lose it. The immobility subsides and is replaced by relentless sobbing. You know it's irrational, but even if it was a ghoul, in that moment, you had your mother again. Alive and so close. For that moment, you felt like the hole in your soul was filling up. Now, the hole is still gaping and raw.

 

“It's okay, you're okay.” Sam consoles you, rocking you gently. Dean tentatively approaches you unsure of how to help or what to say. So, he says all he knows he can.

 

“I'm sorry, Y/N.” Silently, Dean goes to remove and dispose the body far from your line of sight.

 

Sam holds you like a baby in his arms as he takes you back to the Impala. As you are carried by the old man you see him fall to his knees. He beats at the ground in grief induced rage, tears streaming down his battered face. Dean, who apparently broke the news to the old man, is becoming increasingly more uncomfortable. Dean understands that nothing his says or does will lessen this man's pain. Hell, even time may not dull his ache. For a moment, you wonder if you should say something to help Dean feel better, the day taking a clear toll on him. But the thought is quickly thrown away. If you can barely stand on your own there is no way you can support him the way he needs or deserves. You are placed in the backseat while Sam and Dean try to figure out what's next. The ghoul pack may still be around, but with its ringleader dead they will probably split into different subgroups and, hopefully, die out. Right now, their main concern is you.

 

They look at you from across the expansive driveway that no longer seems as serene, and can only stare at how haggard you look. Your eyes have glazed over, your cheeks appear to have sunken in. Even your entire body appears to be crumbling from the inside. Suffice to say, you look exactly like how you feel. The boys silently drive you back to their motel. For them, the silent is suffocating, for you it is still far too loud. The rumble of the engine, and even the sound of gravel crunching underneath the tires,  is driving you insane. Not to mention all the smells. The faint metallic scent of blood hangs around all of you, and the occasional wafting scent of roadkill doesn't help.

 

You have never been more happy to see the inside of a rundown motel. The disgusting floral print furniture usually is an assault to your eyes, but today you couldn’t care less. With your feet dragging along the thin, blue carpet you find the nearest twin sized bed. You cover yourself and curl into a fetal position, trying to take up as little space as possible. All you want is to rest and for everything to be forgotten. Unfortunately, you don't have that luxury, even in your dreams.

 

Once again, you enter the old man’s farm house. Your mother is still feeding on his wife in the kitchen, but this time she speaks.

 

“I'm glad I never had to see you give such a disappointing performance. You should have never become a hunter, you're not fit for it. You're not the daughter I raised. You're not the daughter my husband trained. He was right to keep you on a tight leash.”

 

Sam and Dean enter, knives at the ready. With one swift movement Sam slices your mother’s head clean off.

 

“Such a disgrace.” Sam begins, wiping the remnants of your mother's blood off his blade.  

 

Dean goes to finish Sam’s statement. “This is beginner stuff! How could you be so useless that you can't even kill a ghoul by yourself?!”

 

Your mother’s detached head speaks from the floor. “Your father is probably rolling in his grave! He should have never trusted you. I should have never had you!” The ferocity of her statement causes strings of saliva to fly onto the floor.

 

You try to run out, but the doors disappear behind chipped brick walls. Everyone’s voice bounce around you, echoing in the now empty, brick encased hallway. As you try to pry the bricks apart to only reveal more bricks, the elderly man appears behind you. He twists you around and slams you against the wall. Your head feels like it's spinning and filling with water.

 

“My wife is dead because you didn’t work fast enough! I lost the love of my life because you don’t know how to do your job!” The elderly man’s wrinkled skin looks like it's melting.

 

Tiny droplets of almost melted wax skin dribbles its’ way down onto the floor. You gag and try to turn away as the man’s eyes, that you notice for the first time, turn from their striking dark brown colour meld with the irritated whites of his eyes. In that moment you feel liquid rolling down your arms. You bite the bullet and look down to see exactly what you feared, this man’s hands are melting around your wrist and oozing its’ way down onto your shoes. The vile stench of burning rubber and singeing skin assaults your nose, sticking its’ way into every breath even as you cover your nose and mouth.

 

You wake involuntarily screaming and kicking. Automatically, you check your arms and legs for his wax-like flesh. It slightly steadies your heart to see that his flesh is nowhere to be found. The awful smell of burnt skin and rubber still lingers, which makes you want to scrub the room clean until the stench is removed. A welcome distractions comes in the form of the motel door opening. Dean and Sam enter, bags of fast food hanging from their arms. The amount of food could easily feed five people till their stomachs burst.

 

“What's all this for?” You shuffle out of bed and over to the massive pile of greasy food. Temporarily, you place your pride behind you. You understand the if it wasn't for their obligation to take care of you the ghoul would have killed you. Doesn't mind you're happy, but hey, you owe them.

 

“We thought you might be hungry so we got some food.” Dean comments offhandedly while removing even more food from their containers.

 

Sam walks over to you and embraces you. When he releases you from his Titan-like grasp Sam begins, “Y/N, I don't know how to say this, but I think you should be prepared.”

 

Already exhausted, you sigh. “What is it now?”

 

“Well…” Dean seeing that this is a conversation that is easier explained by diving in head first, takes over explaining.

 

“We called you Dad and he's coming to pay us a visit.” Dean is so nonchalant it is almost as if he is talking about the weather.

 

“Guys, I'm really not in the mood for jokes.” You go to say more, but the groaning of an engine shuts you up.

 

You focus your eyes on the motel door, wishing, begging even, that no one walks through. The door swings open and slams against the motel wall creating a door knob shaped hole. Inside of the doorframe is the one person, well second really, you thought you'd never see again. Your father’s beard has grown out, now completely Santa Claus esque instead of how patchy it used to be. His hair is greasy, as well as his skin, and tied in a sloppy low ponytail. Your dad looks like he has spent days, maybe even weeks, in the wilderness without bathing. You remember this look well. It always happens whenever he goes too deep into a mission or the bottom of a bottle, sometimes both. He comes to hug you and you smell the old liquor on his breath as well as on his clothing. His entire body seems to be bathed in that familiar scent.

 

“I heard about what happened and I thought I should swing by. How you doing, kiddo?”

 

“I'm fine.” You're not, and anyone can tell by just looking at you, but the quicker you get your father out of your hair the better. If he even sniffs out a bit of weakness he'll latch onto like a rabid dog.

 

“Good!” He slams his hands simultaneously on your shoulders. “Because we gotta get you back in the game! So, Daddy is gonna be training you again. You know, just to make sure that next time you don't fuck it up.” The bit in his chirpy, camp counselor voice doesn't go unnoticed by the boys or by you.

 

You just want to sink into yourself, to evaporate. Training with him the first time was hell and now probably won't be any better. Plus, to be honest, you want nothing to do with hunting for a good long while. But, you can't tell him that. You take one good look at the light twinkling in his eyes and his broad, uneven smile and you know that you can't tell him you want out. It will crush him from the inside out. Hunting is his lifeblood now. He'd take it like he always has, like you are rejecting him, moving away from him, as a reflection of him. It never would be seen for the general apathy you have to the dirty work of hunting. You swallow your growing nausea.

 

“Let's do this.”

 

 


End file.
